Wound

THE green bird in the green forest
Lives by camouflage;
The gray gull at sea. Over winter fields
The white hare drifts like snow;
Jungles shelter dappled hide.

The spirit, too, wears camouflage.
A timid smile,
A sharp breath quickly drawn
Reveal the gentle, yet untamed.
Mostly it soars unseen,
A questing dove.

Now the green bird flutters in a wicker cage,
The white hare hangs limp on a market hook;
Camouflage betrayed
The shy, the unwary.
And the spirit trapped shudders to see
The wide world shrunk to this:
A single bar to perch upon,
A crumb if none forgets —
Soft color of safety laid on wing
That one time dared the morning sky.